The Accidental Siren by Jake Vander Ark

Author:Jake Vander Ark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: adventure, beach, kids, paranormal romance, paranormal, bullies, dark, carnival, comic books, disability, fairy tale, superhero, michigan, filmmaking, castle, kitten, realistic, 1990s, making movies, puppy love, most beautiful girl in the world, pretty girl, chubby boy, epic ending

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20 INT. CATHEDRAL - DAY

THE GIRL HAS FINALLY GROWN UP. HER ADVENTURE IS OVER AND SHE KNOWS THE TRUTH.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FANCY CHURCH, SHE LIGHTS A CANDLE AND CRIES.

My camera was still except for the mechanical whirr of the tape in the chamber. The lens was wide, capturing The Girl like a rag doll among the cathedral’s polished floors, epic columns, and mezzanine rim. Above the row of candles, a plaster wall was ablaze with the blurred form of a dove inside a broken rainbow; a gift from the stained-glass window on the opposite wall.

Dominique watched from the crook of the confessional. His excitement was evident only in his reverence.

Less than a foot from the camera frame, Father Stevenson observed my equipment and crew. His spine was rigid like the vertical beam of the cross and his arms were bound by an invisible straightjacket.

I could smell my mother behind me doused in perfume and powder, a sanctimonious attempt to conform to the standards of The House of God.

Whit was the fifth witness, erect in his chair, clenching the boom, watching as liquid formed in Mara’s eyes.

Gently, the girl pinched a candle as if the shaft was a flower stem, plucked it from the brass stand, and held the flame to a new wick.

I studied the fire in her eyes; the anger, the hurt, the madness that normally manifests itself in bubbles of snot, beaten pillows, or terrible cries in the dark.

Hair down, face sealed in a dusty veneer, Mara pressed both candles among a garden of flaming sticks. She knelt before them–the candles, the smeared dove on the wall, her God–and she wept.

I zoomed into her profile. Her head was bowed. The balled-fist of a prayer was clenched beneath her chin. A single tear shattered the fragments of light and shadow, carved a path through the mud on her face, and dropped from her cheekbone to the marble floor.

Behind me, my mother sniffled. Whit risked the boom’s stability to wipe his eye. Father Stevenson relinquished his stoicism, nodded, and crossed himself once.

When I was certain that I had captured the final shot of my film, I whispered, “Cut,” and let the sanctuary breathe.

Mara inhaled once, hard, then popped up her head, raised her smile–teeth and all–and relaxed her shoulders. Her eyes glimmered their brilliant blue. The tear was gone.

“Holy smokes,” she exclaimed. “How’d I do?”

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